|
Date: October, 2006
The snowstorm in the East this fall set this one off. The Fabio fans decided they wanted a hug from their fav Italian. I said I would write a story. But I would make him a vampire. A nice one of course. Note the last name.
Find a typing error? - tell me - I am writing fast --- (Drako is pronounced Dra-KOH) For of you who do not write - I am a re-writer - which means I go back and layer things in when I do spelling checks, and look at sentence structure, and the words I used to start each paragraph. And then I add touches. And involve the senses. A rough draft takes a day. The rest? Until it is "cooked."
I may touch a doc several times. Right now I am drafting the main outline. Then I will add things like - well HIS point of view - which so far we have not seen. Enjoy!
NOT FOR UNDER 18.
Cursing under her breath, Susan Waring eased up on the gas, tapped the brake but lightly, and scolded herself for the umpteenth time on driving a rental sedan and not an SUV in the middle of a blasted Nor'easter. How had she forgotten about winters in New England? How had she forgotten how the snow could catch you unawares and unprepared? How could she have forgotten the cold?
Because I've been gone for more years than I wanted to count, that's why, she answered herself. California spoils you rotten.
Why was she in a suit for God's sake? Because she always wore a suit. Because she got respect when she traveled if she was dressed to the nines. Like the professional she was. Because this was who she was now. A career woman.
She was paying the price for that little conceit.
It was cold. The heater in the little sedan could not cope with the howling wind. The wipers could not cope with the heavy wet snow, flakes as large as tennis balls, even with the heater vents aimed right at the windshield.
A wool suit was a good idea, if it was a pantsuit. This was not. It was an elegant, pencil-skirted, tight fitted jacket suit that looked good when she was standing in a boardroom. Looked good when she was in the ticket line. Looked good on the plane. Hid a wealth of body flaws. The skirt slid seductively over her hips because she also insisted on L' Eggs panty hose. Usually with sensible heels.
The car slid a bit, fishtailed a bit and then found its footing and crept forward.
She was lost. Damit! She was lost.
Susan looked out at pitch-black darkness with the ever-falling silent snow and could find no sign of life, no street marker, of course not, this was New England and in the country. Not that the little headlights spread very far. If there had been a sign she would have missed it.
The windshield was caking up, so she opened the window again and used her left arm to man the scraper. It was funny how childhood skills came back to you. As quickly as possible she put the window back up and watched the futility of the gesture. Not futile. She had succeeded in chilling herself all over again.
The flakes settled and clustered around the wipers.
She wanted her trusty 4x4 truck. Or her friend's SUV. The little sedan was helpless in this storm. Flying a truck East would have been prohibitive. She still wished she had it.
She caught a flicker of light up ahead. A glimmer of hope. She took a breath.
Instead of finding help, she found herself spinning in a 360 skid, airborne, and then she saw the tree trunk looming in her line of vision. She closed her eyes, yanked the wheel and waited for the crash.
Black ice! How had she forgotten about that? Images rained in a sequence of flashes. Then, nothing. It was quiet. The car engine stalled. She was intact. The tree was still standing. She exhaled. She was alive.
She was stalled, off the road, in the air, on top of a packed snowdrift. A snowplow had come through sometime. Lucky thing. The sedan was not that heavy and it was barely sinking.
Knowing New England country, there was probably a stone fence or an earthen mound under there.
She clambered out of the car on shaking legs and looked. There were tire tracks over the trunk of the tree. Her last-minute wheel-cranking had saved her life. She had driven over the bark to rest on the top of the hard packed snow. Or the right front tire had. She had no memory of being tilted. She had no memory of flying in the air. She had no memory of leaving the road. She looked at her feet. She had no memory of climbing out of the car. She was trembling.
Susan was herself sinking only a few inches into the surface.
People were suddenly there, lunging out of the snow, four big well-fed, overly well fed men, laughing. The scent of beer wafted at her. They lifted the sedan like it was a feather pillow, which it was fast resembling, and set it back in the street. This as not the first cart o make this trip. It would not be the last.
Susan wndered why the tree was still where it was and what had she landed on? There was a house someplace to the side. A glimmer of light broke into the snow on occasion. The men must have been outside, drinking, watching the snowfall when she had made her rather spectacular arrival.
She thanked them for their help, said she was OK and thanked them for asking, declined a beer, and asked for directions, getting herself headed in what she believed to be the right direction, namely back from where she had so laboriously just driven.
Her hand shook on the wheel, her knees knocked, her thermos was empty, and would have been ice cold, her granola bar was long gone and she was exhausted.
Shock.
She decided she was probably in shock. Not to mention thoroughly cold.
Making it to the turnaround, those peculiar road constructs one found in New England and perhaps England proper, well, perhaps Europe if one remembered the Arc de Triomphe and Rome, she took another road. She was still confused. There were five roads coming together at this one. Left could have been any one of three.
She was turned around. She was still, she very much feared, lost. Her hands still trembled. Her stomach was clenched with the fear of the storm, the near-miss of the wreck and the feeling of being hopelessly lost.
The B&B she was headed for would not see her tonight. Oh well.
She struggled on, hoping for a gas station, for certainly they still had them in New England, or a McDonald's or any of the other fast-food horror stops she could think of. Or a pay phone booth, well, phone stand more like. Or a turnpike entrance. Turnpikes had big gas stations, maps and hot coffee. And they had state troopers. Side roads were pretty much ignored.
A sign, a house, anything. She pushed forward.
The car, however, had other ideas. The wipers, thin and pathetic compared to the winter blades on the truck, were losing the war with the heavy wet snow and they resembled mittens rubbing at the glass. She could not see far and could only squint at the occasional space between snow and more snow.
Susan lost track of the road. The fence she had been using as a guide had veered off or ended, she wasn't sure which. She felt herself slide off the shoulder, and the little car came to a stop, wheels spinning.
Great! Just damn bloody great!
Her wheels spun forward or backward. No rocking the car out of this! She eased back off the gas.
Susan smacked the wheel. It did not do any good but it made her feel better.
She had no survival gear in the car. Her boots were ankle-high cute, fake, lizard-print, Easy Spirit boots that in no way were designed for stomping through this muck. She had only slip-ons, high heels and sneakers in her suitcase. Nor had she brought a heavy coat, planning to be nestled inside a building, reading and resting. Her paperback books would not help her in this mess unless she built a fire. Peering out, she stared into the thick snow, trying hard not to panic.
The road did not look plowed. Was that good or bad? Did it mean a truck and eventual rescue? Or was the road was in one of those between jurisdictions that remained unplowed until someone with a plow on his 4x4 plowed it free sometime the next morning? Wait for a good Samaritan? Right.
Susan turned off the motor and cataloged her options.
She could die from carbon monoxide poisoning, for the muffler would be clogged in the deep drifting. Or the gas would run out before she was poisoned quite enough and she could just freeze to death while delirious. Or she could sit here and knowingly freeze to death slowly. Or she could get out, try walking and freeze to death quickly.
It was small consolation that she was well-dressed. She would be dead and well-dressed. Unless she was run over by the snowplow.
She was contemplating trying to drive off the shoulder and back onto the road, knowing this car would probably not make it, wondering what she could find to put under the spinning wheels, but understanding that the act of trying to save herself might make her accept whatever followed with more peace. She was still thinking about this when there was a thump against the driver's side window.
Susan spun around to look, heart in mouth and stomach clenched, and saw a face! A man's face, pressed to the glass and peering into the car. The dark and the pressing made the face distorted and horrid.
She screamed.
She had nothing with which to protect herself. She couldn't even remember if the door was locked.
The face pulled back, a flashlight waved over the little car and then a hand, gloved of course, as hers were not, rapped on the glass. Imperious. A command.
She must have looked like a frightened. Jack-rabbit. Deer in the headlights. Shaking, she decided this was help. She would deal with whatever else it might be later.
Susan cautiously opened the door. The man behind the face remained watching her a moment before he spoke.
"Do you wish to freeze to death, or would you like to follow me?" a beautiful deep voice, thickly accented, asked her.
Oh Lord! She looked up at him. He had to be over 6 feet. She timidly stepped out of the car. Yes. He was. She barely came to his shoulder. More like his armpit.
He was looking at her feet. His long hair swung over his shoulder. There was so much snow in it she wasn't sure of the color.
"Best I have," she mumbled as if to answer the unasked question. Her mouth was dry, her head could not seem to connect with her tongue and she felt like some landed fish. Parts of her vibrated in some primitive response to all this testosterone.
Pheromones. He was wafting pheromones at her. She smelled a hint of aftershave. It reminded her of countryside, fresh flowers, and an exotic garden. Whatever it was, her senses wanted to get closer.
"Not very wise," he flashed a smile and her knees about buckled. Blinding. Good Lord! He could do commercials with that smile!
"I did not expect to get lost. But, I have a suitcase. In the trunk. It's a rental. I am used to a truck. And I can walk." She shut up. She stilled her waving hands. She stopped nodding. She tried not to act like an idiot.
He waited. For what?
Then she realized, for me to open the damn trunk of course. He had cocked one elegant eyebrow, and merely watched as she got herself pulled somewhat together. She wondered what color his eyes were.
She waded to the back of the car and opened the icy trunk. Her purse, a backpack, was hanging from one arm and was quickly turning white.
Her nylon parka over the suit was already coated. It was lightly lined and was obviously not enough.
She felt herself shiver.
He looked at her again, and then stepped up and lifted the case, not a little one, in one hand as if it weighed absolutely nothing, while she had paid extra for it being overweight on the plane.
OK, he has muscles.
Her brain was not functioning. Surely not. She shivered.
He had stepped back while she closed and locked the car, a ritual she had to follow, for whatever reason. Habits, stick to habits, she told herself. When she was finished, he turned and started walking into the falling snow. She tried to follow, took steps too quickly, skidded, and fell face down.
A large gloved hand lifted her up by one arm, set her upright, and that voice crooned to her. "Not good shoes for walking on ice. Stay in my tracks."
If he purred at her again, she would melt. As it was, she was following him anywhere.
He did not look half-frozen as she must. Even brushing herself off, she was plastered with snow. Her nylons would crack into bits. Surely.
No. He looked huge, in a black down-filled jacket, which had enormous snow shoulder pads much like a quarterback, tight corduroys, probably lined, oh good grief, and cowboy boots. Cowboy boots?
Lord.
He was probably leading her to a pick-up truck. A house would be too much to ask for. A cave perhaps? She glanced appreciatively at the shape of his backside and the size of his thighs, then scolded herself for foolishness at her errant mind and chalked it up to shock, exhaustion and all around fear.
She stepped into his long-legged steps and kept her head down. With luck, she would get someplace before her feet froze. Her toes were already painful. Not a good sign.
She trudged forward.
Her fingers fared no better. Her nose, she was convinced, would soon fall off.
Suddenly aware of total silence, she paused to look up from her wading, and realized she was alone. The snow was thick and steady. There was not a single solitary sound but the whispering drift of the flakes. He was no longer visible.
Susan panicked. Even the steps in front of her were filling too fast. She would loose the trail. The little car was also out of reach. She was, if anything, worse off then before.
There was no sign of the man or her suitcase. No lights. No edge to the wide expanse of white.
She was lost in a sea of snow.
About to freak out, she nearly screamed again as arms lifted her and she found herself crushed against a rather solid chest, down padding or no.
"You are too slow. You would freeze." He was crooning at her in that melodic deep voice again.
In response, she wrapped her arms around his neck, and let her backpack swing free.
How had he done that? Moved so silently. Lifted her so effortlessly.
She hung on for dear life as he strode forward into the night.
He did not seem to understand she was a mid-thirties, not-so thin, professional woman who had her pride. And knew her weight.
Now she was an effortless bundle being hauled someplace by what, she noted close up, was a gorgeous stud, with lovely long hair she wanted to run her fingers through, preferably in front of a warm fire, and she was content to be so.
The man wasn't straining. He wasn't struggling. He wasn't even breathing heavy.
If she did not control her befuddled mind, she soon would be.
Soon enough, he had set her down in the mud room of a rater large, modern house, designed from what she could see, along the lines of Frank Lyod Wright.
He shrugged out of his black jacket and hung it on a peg put there to take care of wet and dripping clothing. He slipped off his cowboy boots and then turned to help her.
Susan had yet to move, not even daring to breathe.
He knelt in front of her had grasped her left lower leg, taking off one boot and then he repeated the touch with the other leg. Large warm hands. Her legs trembled. He rubbed them both for a moment. Then he focused on rubbing her feet.
Within a few minutes she had recovered feeling enough to know she had torn up her pantyhose and her knees when she had fallen so charmingly face-first into the road. Blood caked her poor knees. He seemed fascinated at the cuts. His hands stopped just below her knees. He stared at her, going still and silent.
It only took a moment, and then he seemed to recall what he was doing.
Standing, he peeled her out of her nylon jacket, soggy with the melting snow, and then her suit jacket, also decidedly damp. Both were hung on pegs on the wall where they could drip to the floor of the mud room. He did not let her help.
He led her into the house proper, taking her hand and tugging her along. She had lost all volition. She did not resist. She would, she rather fuzzily thought, follow him anywhere. If he had decided to remove her skirt, she would not have stopped him.
Once in the big kitchen, he lifted her up and put her on the black sparkling granite counter and then he seemed to simply vanish. While she debated about hopping back down, he came back with a first-aid case and proceeded to first wash her knees, then cut off the ripped stockings, and dress her cuts.
"They are not bad. You will not have a scar, I think."
His hands had left a trail of sensations and set her insides quivering.
"Thank you. It's good to know. I seldom fall on my face." She snapped her lips closed. She was babbling again. What was it about him?
He lifted her down, setting her gently on her feet. She inhaled the elusive scent he wore. He smelled like woodland. And there was something else that was his own scent. Her skin tingled where he had grasped her, regardless of the layers of clothing she wore.
"There is a guest room," he purred, almost in her ear, "That way, second door on the left. It has your case and a bath. I would take a hot shower. You are chilled."
How thoughtful to tell her that adrenalin left a sour smell on one's body. Fear, shock and everything else needed to be washed off. She almost spoke in a retort, but had to admit, he was right. She needed to stop shivering.
"Thank you."
She turned and padded down the hall.
Stripping once the door was closed, she went into an elegant, well-appointed bathroom with a whirlpool and a multi-head shower. There was soap, shampoo, and conditioner. A thick terry robe hung on the back of the shower door. The tiles reminded her of a roman spa. The floor was stone. Large blocks, slightly rough to prevent nasty falls, and neat grout. The tiles were a blue-gray, with stripes. The brushed nickel fixtures had the right look for this room.
She stepped into the shower and turned it on. After fiddling a bit, she figured out how to operate the multi-head function. Standing in the hot steamy water, she shampooed her shoulder-length dark hair and conditioned it. Then she stood there, letting the water pelt her, until at last her feet and hands were pink, and she felt water-logged,
The towels were thick, high-quality, the kind that sopped up the water and left you dry without rubbing, and she wondered if a woman had done the decorating. Men usually did not pay attention.
She opened the door, turned off the fan and stepped into the room. Her suitcase had been moved to the closet, and she saw that all her clothing had been hung up or put into drawers in the rather modern but pleasing dresser. Her make-up was sitting on the top, her nightgown lay by the turned down bed.
Did he have a maid? She had not heard a sound.
She dried her hair, put on anti-frizz and some styling gel, let it hang loose, combing it over to the side.
In her pretty, thin silk nightgown and robe, she felt ridiculous.
She pulled the heavy terry robe back over the top, jerked the tie-belt closed, and stepped into fuzzy slippers.
Then, taking a deep breath, she went back to the kitchen. She wanted, needed and was determined to have coffee. Hot. Strong. Sweet.
She stepped into the beautiful, sterile room, for nothing dared be out of place. No clutter to show that anyone lived here, and the colors were unobtrusive and neutral except the grain of the wood and the black sparkling granite counter. Black pots hung. Black utensils sat in a vase. Black trim edged the window curtain over the sink. Like everything else, they were pleated, modern, and well-matched to the look of the room.
She would have loved to cook a feast in here. She would love to prowl and see what was inside those beautiful cabinets. She would love to make a mess.
The first-aid kit was gone, but bandages had been on her bed and her knees were again dressed. The pain plus antibiotic was helping because as she had defrosted, her nerves had woken up and snapped to attention.
Susan looked for the coffee pot - for surely there would be one. It would be sleek and modern. But she did not see it.
"It is behind the door on the right of the sink."
He was right behind her. How silently he moved.
"Coffee?" she asked.
"Coffee. I keep it for visitors. There is a grinder in the machine. It is wonderful is it not? I will make some. Yes?"
"Yes, please."
The smile was slight, but the twinkle in his eyes mesmerized her. He had blue eyes and black hair, and the scent that he wore was fresh and stronger, subtle and alluring, but not overpowering. His eyes she would need to think about. Close up, they were almost crystalline. A light blue. Turquoise. Striking.
Hers were a simple greenish blue.
He had showered as well. His hair was, however, unlike her thick dark locks, nearly dry. Neatly combed. Long. Silky. She doubted frizz would dare appear on that head.
She thought of spray paint. He had changed into tight black jeans. He had lean hips, strong thighs, and broad shoulders.
She practically sat on her hands.
He had on a black turtleneck sweater. Some soft elegant expensive wool. The bulges in his biceps were effectively camouflaged but she knew they were there.
The man was quick and sure, unhurried and efficient in his movements. The smell of fresh coffee wafted into the room. He turned and looked into the refrigerator and pulled out a half salmon. It would feed three people or more.
He added butter, lemons, seasonings, and then lifted a large loaf of Italian bread from a breadbox. Another trip between fridge and counter yielded salad greens, dressing and a bit of tarter sauce.
While he cooked, he as quickly arranged plates and silverware. He poured two glasses of red wine. His back had been to her so she did not know what brand.
She took her glass and inhaled. Sweet. Like she liked it.
"What do I call you?" it finally occurred to her to ask.
"Drako. I am Drako. Lanzoni. You are Susan Waring."
"Do you have a maid?"
"Not when I am living here. A couple care-takes when I am not home."
"You unpacked my suitcase?" Tampons, panty-liners and underwear?
"Yes. You were tired. I thought you might prefer not to be doing anything tonight. I fix dinner."
"May I help?"
"No. You should take your wine and sit by the fire. Or would you prefer brandy?"
"Fire?"
He pointed with a fork, "In the living room." He went back to placing the salmon on the broiler pan, butter pats and seasoning in place. The broiler was already heating.
Dismissed, her coffee finished, she took the wine glass and walked into the living room to the fire. Lovely. Of course it was. Deep leather sofa, side chairs, and beautiful wood tables were tastefully arranged. Artwork was modern, splashes of color, carefully in harmony with the surroundings. The stone of the fireplace was a gray granite studded with garnets. The fire was banked up against the firebox, where she knew chambers behind it heated air. A heatilator fan was running, and it pushed the warm air into the room. A candelabra was lit and served as the only light.
In front of the fire, a soft splash of thick, soft white rug lay and she sank down into it, propping herself up with one arm, and sipped at her wine. The flames danced merrily and she was instantly warm.
She was not shivering anymore but her blood was pumping into her face and she knew she was flushing from the wine on an empty stomach.
Homey sounds came from the kitchen. Drako was a cook. Her stomach growled.
Drako. The name suited him. Dark Lord. He was dressed head to toe in black. Yet, in his case, black suited him and certainly went with the house.
Not a spec of dust was on the nearest table. A spec of dust would not dare. She wondered how he did it. A fan blowing hot air was the dirtiest way to heat a house. There should be a film on the table.
Perhaps he just arrived. Perhaps his care-takers had only just cleaned. Perhaps.
The smell of salmon wafted into the room.
She got up, slowly, slightly dizzy, and stumbled into the kitchen.
He was slowly sipping at his own glass.
Watching her, he set his glass down, then came and put her into the barstool seat before she fell over it.
She leaned on the counter, arms around her plate.
She smiled. She was, she scolded herself, behaving like a silly idiot.
He smiled back.
"You are not a drinker. You have not eaten in awhile?" That voice vibrated all down her spine. God damn! The man purred. A cat could take lessons.
"No. I was starving." She stopped. She just had to be slurring her words. Drako was openly grinning.
Susan scolded herself and then tried to speak. "I am hungry."
He went back to his glass. "A few more minutes. I am hungry too."
Swiftly, he tossed back the rest of the contents of his glass, turned around, and poured himself another. She did not see the bottle. His wine was, however, thicker than hers. Different. She wondered if he liked sweet or dry red wine.
She resisted the urge to walk over and taste him.
Drako served the salmon onto the plates, the salad into bowls, and the sliced Italian bread to the broiler to heat.
It took but a minute and he was dribbling olive oil and butter mixed over the bread. Her mouth watered.
He set Perrier bottled on the table, and sat down with the plate of sliced bread between them.
Susan took a slice of bread, bit into heaven. It was really very good.
"No garlic spread?" she asked.
He raised an eyebrow. They were really elegant those eyebrows and he was quite good at expressing himself with them.
"No. I do not care for the smell."
"Oh well. Some people do not. I love garlic spread on hot bread."
She thought she heard a growl. Certainly not.
The salmon flaked perfectly when she cut it and then nearly melted in her mouth.
The bread was soft and hot in the center, and spicy and hard on the outside.
The salad had a lovely vinaigrette.
He didn't have an ounce of fat on that body.
She sipped wine, and tried a second slice of bread. Her buzz was fading. She would become sensible anytime now.
He had, after seeing her enjoying her food, focused on clearing his own plate.
Plates cleared, he took them to the sink, rinsed them and put them into the dishwasher. He returned with bowls of raspberries and blueberries.
She felt awed. It was perfect. She didn't even ask for cream.
"I do not use dairy," he smiled at her with white teeth.
Dinner was over very soon, she was sated, and languid.
"My car? Will it be alright?"
He closed the dishwasher with the last of the dishes but did not start it.
"It will be fine." He leaned lean hips into the counter. "How came you to be out in this storm?" She noted the black deerskin slippers. Did he ever wear color? Did he need to? He was tall, long and lean, muscles where it counted. Her mouth watered.
"I flew in from the West Coast, expecting to spend a few days around the fall color, curled up in a B&B and reading. No phones. No faxes. No emails. I did not expect nor pack for a blizzard."
"No one did. Global warming." He flashed that grin at her again.
Her stomach did flip-flops.
"I simply got lost. I thought I could follow a map fairly well, but the maps for the country, well," she finished, lamely. What could she say?
"You were headed to a B&B. Probably," and he thought a moment and named the place.
"That's it!"
"You are sixty miles away from it."
She groaned.
"If I can get out in the morning, I could still get there."
"There will be no color. The leaves all fell off the tress." He shrugged. It was a continental thing. It was very Italian.
"Right. Well, but I could still read."
He pointed into the living room She turned to look. Her books, unnoticed before, sat on the coffee table."
"You can read there."
"I could not impose," she stammered. She would love to stay here. She would pay to stay here. She would be in heaven to stay here.
"It will not be imposing. The trees, they are falling. I do not think you will get out tomorrow."
"How do you know ?"
"I was outside to look at one when your car decided to stop."
Of course he was. Right where she had needed him to be. She made a note to take good care of the little car.
"Who plows your driveway? Perhaps I could ride out with them?"
"I plow my driveway. I drive a big truck." He flashed that grin again.
"A big truck?"
"A big Ford. With a plow blade mounted on the front. Tomorrow, I show you."
A Ford. Hell. She drove a Tacoma Toyota. There was an argument.
There are trees down," he added. "My people will come and clear the road when the snow stops. Then I will plow my driveway and we can find your little car." He pronounced it "Leetle." She found she adored his accent. Perhaps she should pack up and fly to Rome.
"Your people?" she finally managed.
"The caretakers. They must come with chain saws and clear the road. So you are here." He flashed another grin at her. He was finding this whole thing terribly amusing.
Susan felt guilty at not helping with the dishes other than handing him her own. But she moved easily to the rug with her second glass of wine.
He joined her, sitting near to her, too near, folding up those long legs in those impossibly tight black jeans. She wanted to touch him with an ache that seemed to well up in her. She wanted to listen to him purr words at her, any subject he wanted. She wanted to make him grin again. That flash of white, that crease in his cheek, that sparkle in those incredible eyes. Men had no right to have such long lashes, such beautiful eyes. His profile looked like a Greek statue come to life.
In the midst of these wild thoughts, she hiccupped.
Drako gently lifted the remaining wine from her hand, flashed his sexy grin, and set the glass out of her reach.
"I guess I don't hold my wine too well," she mumbled.
"You are very tired. I think soon you should sleep."
Only if you come sleep with me, she thought. If he purrs at me again I will, do something. Just what that was she had not decided.
He helped her to her feet, walked her to the door of her room. She turned and he used his fingers to softly stroke her errant hair back off her forehead.
She stepped back, wondering if he would follow.
He watched her for a moment, then reached out and pulled the door closed between them.
"Well, damn," she mumbled to herself as she staggered over to her bed, climbed in under the covers, and pulled them up. The heavy terry robe she had left on the floor.
"A gentleman. Who could guess?"
She fell sound asleep.
Continue.......
Copyright @ 2006 Donnamaie E. White
|
www.Donnamaie.com my home page